


And the disturbance thereafter

by Luzulu



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety, Bros with ptsd help bros with ptsd, Character Study, Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Lisa and Jeremy are only mentioned, Medication, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:43:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8829034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzulu/pseuds/Luzulu
Summary: Memory is a wicked, horrible thing. It bites at his ankles and at the corners of his mind. Baby steps, watching a late-night movie with a friend. The ghosts of Mount Massive will find him anywhere.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first piece of fanfic I've uploaded anywhere in so long! I'm very sorry if it's rusty but I wanted to start with something safe and short and just try some things out.  
> Anyway, this is set a while after the end of Whisteblower. Miles and Waylon were found and rehabilitated and now spend their time moving from hotel to hotel in order to keep away from Murkoff, and neither get to see their families. This is all really unnecessary information but basically, I just wanted to write about my boys supporting each other.

There’s nothing special about it, really.

They’re just sitting in Miles’ hotel room, curled up beside each other on the couch, letting an old movie play out into the quiet hours of the night.  Just a normal thing to be doing with your close friend in a Saturday night, he thinks.

Or it should be.

He used to do this kind of thing a lot. With Lisa, or his boys. Or before them, his college friends, and his siblings before that. It’s normal, he thinks. It really shouldn’t be bringing him such happiness.

Calm physical proximity and companionship is a great thing. It also shouldn’t give him so much pause. It shouldn’t feel as though deep down, this is wrong, to be happy. The edge of awareness in his bones jumps awake at the feeling of contentment. He’s afraid, everything is perfect and normal and he’s afraid. Does Miles ever get like this? He swallows hard.

A pain on his forehead makes him realise he has been worrying about not worrying too much. He consciously relaxes his eyebrows from their deep furrow and tries to refocus on the movie.

It’s some cheap horror. The only kind really shown at this time of night, aside from the cheap erotic films (no thank you) and reruns of the news (definitely no thank you). It’s been fairly tame so far, which Waylon appreciates. Usually, when they watch these kind of things, he relies on the interjections of Miles to help him laugh at all the cheap special effects and awful attempts at jump scares. He thinks his friend might have fallen asleep though, and he is left alone at what is admittedly pathetic attempts at gore. Somewhere in his mind he wants to compare them to the real intestines and splattered flesh he has seen spread up walls. But he also doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to go back there and he wants to be able to laugh at terrible effects like a normal person. It’s hard not to, though. Whoever made this film had obviously never seen a real dead body, bless their soul. He doesn’t think he had, either, before…

It’s so dark in the room, he notices, glancing around in sudden paranoia. The grainy light from the TV is the only illumination, casting a poor shadow across the suite and suddenly he is reminded of the view through a night vision camcorder. He looks back to the TV. The grunting villain in a poorly made mask is repeatedly stabbing the heroine. She’s screaming and there’s blood and it’s so _dark._ His breathing constricts. He doesn’t want to go back there, not now, please.

He was happy not a moment ago, he thinks, around laboured breaths and clenching fists. He feels so hopeless, for a moment, because he can’t manage to do something so _normal_. That’s how he knows he’s fucked up, because he’s not afraid, he’s angry and useless and hopeless. He takes some deep breaths. He controls his breathing in the way his therapist taught him, and attempts to control the tiny tears springing to his eyes. He wipes the few that do get loose with a small sniffle, grumpily staring at the TV. He hates the whole thing, he thinks. He’s not the type of man to hate things, he’s not. He understands that people enjoy the thrill of fear, the same way they might enjoy a roller-coaster, or a cigarette. He hates it for what it does to him specifically-which is a self-centred and ridiculous point of view to take, he knows, but he does it all the same. The awful effects, the gratuitous blood, they’re so obviously fake that he doesn’t think it would have any effect on a regular viewer. But they’re just close enough, just close enough, to remind him of what he saw and what he wishes he could forget and he can’t find the remote-where is the remote, he doesn’t want to have to see this anymore, please turn it off. Hysteria takes hold of him as he scrambles through the pillows, the sound of pre-recorded screams goading him on from the background. He wants it to _stop_ and he wants it to stop now or he’s afraid of what he’s going to remember. Shaking hands are useless at searching through cushions and he loudly falls off the couch, a muffled cry peeping out of his lips. He quickly slaps a hand over his mouth, force of awful, terrible habit.

“Park?”

A flood of memories. Every time Jeremy fucking Blaire used that name before he tried to kill him. A bar at his neck, a knife in his guts. He whimpers, curling into a ball against the sofa.

“Jesus Christ Park, what the fuck happened?” And it’s Miles, only Miles, of course it is. He’s a firm hand pulling him up, a soft whisper while he attempts in vain to transform the others breaths into something normal. He waits until Waylon is in control before he says anything properly.

“You okay man?” he asks, as Waylon moves to sit across from him on the sofa. He’s already found the remote, switching over to a radio station for the light and background noise (anything but static). Waylon doesn’t register this, but he does notice the four fingered hand rubbing his side, reassuring him despite his dislike of contact.

“Yeah I’m-” he chokes on his words. He’s so angry at himself, Miles shouldn’t have to put up with him like this. The room is so dark and he’s being pathetic but his hands won’t stop shaking in front of him.

“You sure? I don’t know about you but”, he laughs, “when I’m okay I’m generally not crying,” Miles’ voice is joking, but there’s an edge of concern that bleeds though that strikes a chord with the smaller man.

“I-I didn’t notice…” he’s wiping at his face desperately, the best he can manage when his hands won’t stop shivering.  Miles lets him, which helps his dignity a bit, not that there’s anything left to hide from this man. They’ve both seen each-others tapes, their crying and whimpering in that hell-hole.  They were near-by in rehabilitation too, and neither were strangers to hearing the other awake from a nightmare screaming. There’s nothing much left to hide. “I- I was looking for the remote I just-”

“I got it, s’alright, Park.” Miles is being uncharacteristically patient with the way he looks at him, and Waylon is glad because he doesn’t think he could take an argument with the usually standoffish man right now.

“I’m sorry- for waking you up I mean- I was- It was-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Miles is looking off darkly towards the television, “It was my fault for putting on a fucking horror movie, stupid fucking idea-”

“No, don’t- I mean, probably yeah,” he lets out a small laugh, trying to reach inside to find the strength of the man who sold out Murkoff, “but it’s ok, I’m not gonna be beaten by a shitty two-hundred-dollar movie.” He hopes his voice isn’t shaking too much.

“Yeah?” Miles is wearing a little smile, glancing at him.

Waylon swallows, “yeah”. He nods, and Miles nods back at him, and they share a moment of something like defiance, or strength.

Miles stands up, attitude shifting, “wanna go turn on all the lights, put on one of your nerdy sci-fi’s and try to fall asleep on the couch? I’ll even bring us our meds and some whisky.”

Waylon can’t help smiling at that, “sounds perfect”.

They do just that, and it’s so easy. There’s no monsters and there’s no spectre’s and no madmen (they hope). There is just warmth- from the whisky, from the person beside them. Waylon leans into Miles warmth, resting his head on his shoulder and exhaling, long and slow. He wonders, after all they’ve been through, if safety can really be this easy. He hopes so.  For a few hours at least, he stops worrying. He gives in to the illusion of safety. He lets himself be happy.


End file.
